Boats Against the Current
by vamisa
Summary: Finnick and Annie's story from Finnick's reaping to the end of Mockingjay. Annie's POV. All true to the books.
1. Chapter 1

It starts when Finnick is reaped. When those damn ugly plastic yellow nails swivel too far to the left in the clear glass bowl and pull his name out, the life floods out of me. Whatever color left in my face must flush out like my mother says it does when I'm scared and my eyes drop away from the stage instinctively. I hear him walking. I hear the microphone's vacant hum, the high-pitched accented voice declaring his name again, the theme song projected one final time. Then the wailing.

It comes from his mother, somewhere behind me in the section reserved for parents. I recognize the voice of my own mother hushing her, probably getting her aside from the larger mass of relieved parents now moving forward to reunite with their children. I should join them, but I can't get my feet to move. I can't even get my head to think.

I'm stuck in place, my eyes locked on the speakers just below the stage. The voices around me sound like they're being spoken underwater, coming out in bubbles and muted by the pressure of the water. I am underwater. I'm underwater with Finn. We do this a lot—when I was nine and he was eleven we used to try to have conversations underwater, but the air would come out too fast if we wanted to be heard properly, so it turned out we could only say a couple of words at a time. Soon we'd get too tired and just scream at each other, making whale noises and skimming the ocean floor until one of us accidentally swallowed too much water and had to be taken home.

No, Finn has just been reaped to be in the Hunger Games and now his mother is screaming and my mother is urging her towards the Justice Building. I take careful steps in their direction.

"Annie, help her up." My mother says, head gesturing towards the steps ahead. I grab Mrs. Odair's elbow and support her as she wobbles up the steps. A peacekeeper steps between us as soon as we approach the door and I slip in after them, unnoticed.

We're in a room with another family, assumably the female tribute's. I try not to look at them directly, but it's hard to give anyone privacy when everyone is crying together in the same cramped room, sharing the same tortured noises and gasping the same damp, depressing air. Our mothers go in first, not even stopping to think of me. I'm okay with it. I can't imagine having to talk to him at all—maybe I won't have to.

I've spent five minutes examining a light fixture in the corner when our mothers come back in, my mother now completely supporting Mrs. Odair's weight as her body wracks with uncontrollable sobs. They've left the door open behind them and Finnick is looking at me with his strange green eyes, expression blank. I start towards him.

I don't say anything as I close the door behind me, or as I sit on the couch beside him. It's not until he breaks my gaze that I find my words.

"You've got to come back."

He seems much older than fourteen when he replies, "I know."

I look down at my hands. It's not fair that I'm supposed to say goodbye to him like this. I've spent practically my entire life next to Finnick and now the Capitol is yanking him from under my feet so quickly and for no reason other than to watch him die. Finnick does not belong to the Capitol. He is not their toy. He belongs to the ocean, to this place we love, to the seagulls and to the sand and crabs and to me. I ever thought it would happen like this. I never thought this would happen at all.

He just looks sad when he turns back to me. "Take care of my mother and Elliot, okay?"

I nod, swallowing back everything else. I notice the rope bracelet in his hand that his mother most likely gave him and decide it's not enough. I take out my right earring and twist the wire around the metal ring on the clasp so the pearl hangs like a charm.

When I stand the room is fuzzy. Eyes hard and focused on getting out composed, I find myself heading towards the door before Finnick can say anything else, or before I can, for that matter.

"I'm coming back, Annie." His voice comes from behind me.

"I know." I reply.

* * *

We're about thirty seconds into the interviews when I decide I can't watch the games. Caesar Flickerman is still talking with the female tribute from District 1 when, soundlessly, I leave out the back door.

It's past curfew but I know the peacekeepers never come out to the small point where mother and I live, so I don't even bother trying to be sneaky once I'm outside. Our house is the last in the row of five (of which only three are still inhabited) on the sharp, elevated point, so it's a steep downhill grade to get to the small, secluded beach just below.

Apparently when the districts were just being formed our family was pretty influential, thus the prime location. Unfortunately that was a long time ago and the Cresta name doesn't hold much water anymore, other than to the few wharves men who still use and buy our fine mesh nets.

Finnick's family is worse off. Both our fathers were killed in the same shipwreck four years ago, leaving my family with only the side net business to live off of, but for Finnick's family, that was it. My mother does all she can to help, but to be honest, it's not enough. Our fathers worked on the same crew, which is why Finnick and I even ever met. Men in District Four are assigned a crew and a ship as soon as they turn eighteen and are assigned new houses in the same sector as their crewmates. From here the idea is to build their families in these spots and grow their own little communities—it was truly pure luck that the sector my father was assigned to included the family house.

I look back at Finnick's house, which, of course, is empty. For the second time in my lifetime the Odairs are living with us. The first was the few months after the shipwreck.

It's this time I think of as I sit on the beach, huddled into a small ball. My hair is whipping around my face and beads of water are slowly soaking through my clothes but I don't care. I'm not here anymore.

I'm eight and sitting on my bed next to ten-year-old Finnick, small strangers listening to their mothers weep in the next room over.

It's apparent that he doesn't like me and I don't care about him. But later that night when our mothers and Clara are still crying and Elliot is asleep and the thunder starts again, our eyes meet for the first time and a silent pact is made for the night. We both scurry against the headboard of my bed and pull the quilt over us and are still, pretending the thunder outside isn't from the same storm that snapped the mast of our fathers' ship earlier that day.

For two months Finnick and I keep this routine, soon with or without the thunder. Both our mothers don't seem to be functioning correctly and Clara has left so we look to each other for the things we need- mostly warmth and company. Still we barely talk to each other. It must have taken us half a year to have a real conversation.

I want to turn to him and remind him of how funny we used to be, but when I open my eyes the cold realization hits me. _Finn isn't here. Finn is in the Capitol. Finn is probably never coming home._

I decide I'm going to allow myself to cry, but when I do, nothing happens.

I'm empty.

* * *

When the games start, I'm sitting with my feet hanging over the edge of Finnick and I's favorite cliff jumping spot.

When Finnick almost gets killed by the girl with the spear from Seven, I'm collecting shells for a necklace for my mother.

When Finnick allies with Two, I'm climbing over rocks at the south jetty.

When Two breaks the alliance, I'm sitting on our beach tying knots.

When Finnick gets his trident from the sponsors, I'm helping my mother make chowder.

When Finnick makes his first kill, I'm swimming in the cove on the opposite side of our point.

When Finnick makes his second kill, I'm huddled into a ball on my bed against the headboard.

When Finnick makes his third kill, I'm on my sixth net of the day.

When the faint roar of every citizen in District 4's cheers erupts from the houses on the mainland, I'm sobbing. I'm on our beach again, my cheek pressed against the hard wet sand, my hair matted with sea water, and my heart swelling. I'm sobbing, every terrified feeling I've had in the past month surfacing hard and fast, adding to my hysteria. I'm gasping for air but I'm smiling.

He told me he would come back, but I wouldn't let myself believe him until now.

* * *

The energy in our house has done a 180°. Mrs. Odair has sprung back to life and Elliot, Finnick's seven-year-old brother, is constantly strutting around, acting like he knew Finnick would win from day one.

"Clara, remember when Finnick made that trap with the purple vines?" Elliot pesters Clara in the kitchen. I'm sitting with my back to them, finishing the corner of a net. Elliot knows not to approach the subject with me. I don't think I've spoken in a couple days. Instead he spends most of his time and energy on Clara, who normally lives with her husband of three years, Drew, but has spent the past couple of weeks with us.

"Yes, he was very quick on his feet." Clara answers absentmindedly. She must be distracted— normally she adores Elliot. I glance up and follow her gaze to the television that has just flickered on the way it does whenever there's required viewing.

My hands freeze. It's the interview. My eyes squeeze shut as I try to block out the sound of Caesar Flickerman's voice, but it's no use.

"It's lovely to have you again, Finnick. Isn't it, folks?" The Capitol crowd roars in response. The camera pans back to show Finnick, sitting back in a velvet chair and wearing an expensive-looking suit with his hair slicked back. The image is so foreign to me that for a moment I doubt whether it's really Finnick. The Finnick I know hates shoes and would never let his mother try to tame his unruly hair, even on reaping days.

"It's lovely to be back, Caesar." That's Finnick's voice, all right.

Clara comes and sits cross-legged beside me on the floor and pries my hands off the net I hadn't realized I'd still been clutching.

"You all right?" she asks me.

"His hair," is all I can think to say. Clara laughs and tucks some of my hair behind my ear so she can look at me properly. My eyes meet hers and suddenly we're both laughing.

"I know!" she exclaims, shaking her head. Her beautiful dark shoulder-length flies out around her and I feel a rush of affection. I love my sister.

Caesar is asking Finnick about the games, but suddenly it doesn't seem so bad. Finnick is alive and he's coming home. I can't stop the small smile from widening across my face.

Clara doesn't let go of my hand, and I'm thankful. When Finnick talks about the "gorgeous" women of the Capitol, she frowns. I know what she's thinking—it's wrong that they are marketing him this way. He's only fourteen and I know for a fact that he finds the styles of the Capitol ridiculous and unnatural. He's told me himself after years of watching the games together.

I tell myself that everything will be back to normal once Finnick comes home, or rather that Finnick will be back to normal.

I'm wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

I only see Finnick twice in the six months leading up to his Victory Tour, the first time being when he first gets off the train from the Capitol. It's then that I realize I was wrong about thinking he could ever go back to normal. The entire time he stands there waving he wears a dumb self-entitled smirk on his face, pretending not to notice Clara and I standing in the back of the crowd, but I know he sees me. I notice he's still wearing the bracelet with my pearl, which somehow makes me angrier. Who does he think he is? How could I allow myself to think that anyone, even Finnick, could go through the games unchanged? The more I think about it, the angrier I get, but not directly at Finn. I'm angry with the situation and the Capitol and at the possibility that this is the way it could always be from now on.

I don't want it to be like this. I don't want to admit it, but I kind of miss Finn. I decide I want to talk to him, to see if my initial impression at the train station was some sort of mistake, but I never get the chance. I don't have lunch with him at school anymore since our grades are so far apart (apparently he rarely shows up anymore, anyway) and his family has moved out of our sector and into the Victor's Village. I can't find the courage to go there myself, but Finnick hasn't exactly made an effort to contact me, either.

So I exist in limbo, not knowing where we stand. The more time we are separated, the more convinced I become that I have lost him for good. Sometimes at night I wander down to our beach, halfway expecting to find him there but I never do. It takes a while for me to accept that he lives in his own world now, one that has moved beyond needing a painfully innocent-faced twelve-year-old girl who used to live in his sector.

I tell Clara about this a few months after my birthday when Finnick didn't show. I've been spending a lot more time at her and Drew's house now that I'm thirteen and I only have to go to school four days a week. The Odairs are gone and my mother has been busy lately selling nets down at the wharf. Apparently there was a net factory fire somewhere further north and there's been a shortage. Luckily, after the games and my nervous netting habit, we have a surplus.

Clara is styling my hair one day before we go to the market when she finally gives me her two cents.

"What if you were the one who had to fight in the games?" she asks, tugging a paddle brush through my hair.

"What?" I'm confused; we had just been talking about our grocery list.

"I mean, how would you feel if you had to come home to your best friend and face them after killing four people?" her words hang in the air, but I still don't completely comprehend them.

"I don't think that's the issue," I retort, "I told him I wanted him to win and he did."

"You told him you wanted him to win?" More tugging.

"Well—I told him he had to come home."

Clara is quiet for a while, but her hands don't stop working.

"So why do you think he's avoiding you?" she questions.

"Clara, if I knew, we wouldn't be having this conversation," I say, annoyed, "and he's not _avoiding _me. He just hasn't…we…"

"He hasn't sought you out," Clara finishes.

"Yes." I sigh.

"Well, neither have you." She states, giving my hairdo one final tug.

"Neither has he!" I wince, surely red-faced. I turn to her, scowling. "He's outgrown me, Clara."

My sister looks like she wants to protest this, but something in my expression stops her. She just looks sad. This annoys me more—the way she looks at me like she knows something I don't is infuriating. I stand up and go to the kitchen to grab a burlap bag to take shopping with us, but when I return Clara is in the same position. I drop the bag in front of her and she grabs it, standing slowly.

"He loves you, Annie, and I don't think that's changed." Her piercing hazel eyes tell me she is serious. I feel the heat in my face rising. I open my mouth, trying to find something to spit back at her. The idea is embarrassing.

"Finnick doesn't love me, and I don't love Finnick!" I hate how childish I sound.

"There are more types of love than you realize," Clara adjusts the strap of my dress. "I think Finnick loves you the way I love you."

She doesn't clarify what she means by this, but I don't need her to. I suppose in that way I love Finnick, too.

* * *

It's three days before Finnick's victory tour and it feel like I'm truly about to give up hope when I come home and find a shell purposefully place directly in the center of the twine mat in front of my door. I whip around, expecting it to be some sort of joke. This is Finnick and I's old manner of communication. One shell means the beach and two means the other's house. After I determine no one's going to pop out of a bush and start laughing at me, I find my feet instinctively carrying me out further out on the point toward the steep path towards the beach, but my head is reeling. I don't know what or who I expect to find at the bottom.

There's doubt nagging at me in the back of my head, but curiosity if not logic gets the best of me and I head down the path, keeping my eyes down. Finnick's sitting with his arms around his knees, staring out at the water. I stay still and quiet, giving myself a moment just to take it in.

The first thing that comes to mind is how utterly normal he looks—his hair is mussed, he's barefoot, and his clothes are much nicer-looking but still normal. I consider staying like this and purposely not alerting him to my presence so I can leave with the little peace of mind I've gotten just from seeing him, but just as I make my decision, he turns around as if he's sensed me.

"Hey Annie."

"Hey." I say in a careful tone. I sit down next to him and look out at the water. Finnick taught me how to swim here.

"Here." Finnick takes a petite loaf of bread from his bag and hands it to me. I accept it but don't eat it. After it's apparent that I'm not going to say anything, Finnick tries again.

"I'm leaving for the tour Thursday."

"I know," I reply, picking at the seaweed baked into the crust, "it was on the news."

Finnick frowns and I wonder what about that sentence upset him. It doesn't make sense to me—ever since the games he's constantly on the television. Always kissing cheeks, winking, waving at adoring crowds, and always appearing to be enjoying it.

"Elliot really misses Clara. He won't shut up about her ever since we moved. I think he has a crush on her." He smiles.

I think back on the past six months and feel my resolve harden.

"Nothing's stopping him from seeing her." I feel the edge in my voice as soon as the words come out. Finnick turns to me, catching my gaze, looking somewhat shocked at my directness. Good. He should know I'm not the same as I was before all of this—that this has changed me, too. The same thought seems to cross his mind, too, and he immediately drops his gaze.

"It's not that simple."

"Isn't it?" Part of me doesn't want to hear his explanation. Part of me thinks this is where he's going to tell me that he's sorry but things are just different now and that we probably shouldn't stay in contact. My heart is sore. I can't look at him any longer.

"I'm sorry." I almost don't hear him say it. "I just hate it so much. I'm just so sick of them."

"Of the Capitol?" I ask. He nods. "Then don't go."

"It doesn't work like that." Finnick mumbles, avoiding my gaze.

I scoff. "It's not like they force you get on a train every weekend and—"

"Yes! Yes, that exactly what happens, Annie!" He flings the stick he's been poking the sand around with into the water. We both watch the splash. I imagine it sinking to the bottom of the ocean floor. I imagine I'm sitting there underwater, waiting to catch it. Finnick's sigh brings me back.

"You're a celebrity." I realize it as I speak it aloud. I suddenly feel guilty for holding Finn accountable for being gone so much. All this time I've been thinking of him as Finnick Odair, Annie's friend, and not Finnick Odair, the Capitol's victor.

"I'd rather be here, you know." He gives me a sad smile.

I wrinkle my nose in feign disgust. "But Four's so boring."

His smile broadens to a grin. "It's home. It might not be as colorful or loud as the Capitol, but it's home. I like it."

"I like it too," I agree, "but you haven't been there the whole time, have you?"

He knows what I'm really asking. I watch as his eyebrows crease into each other. I've never noticed, but some of his eyebrow hairs are blonde and some are brown, similar to the colors in his eyelashes.

"It just felt wrong to blend the two worlds," he begins, "I'm a different person there than I am here."

I nod, but I still don't completely understand what he means.

"It takes me a while to feel…normal again. Better." He says, scratching his jaw.

"Am I normal?" I ask, genuinely curious.

He glances back up at me, grinning. "Absolutely, terribly, disgustingly normal."

I understand then. The Finnick "there" in the Capitol is the boy who killed to win the games because he had to. He's a suave and lustful symbol of enigmatic power.

The Finnick here is just Finnick, pure and simple. He's the boy who lost his father when he was ten but carried on anyway. He's the boy who loves the ocean like a part of himself, the boy who is friendly to everyone, a boy who loves his mother but hates when she tries to control him or his hair.

It becomes clear to me that Finnick only wants to be the District 4 Finnick. I think he's terrified of mixing the two, or of losing the one. I'm not worried, though.

"So normal that you had to come back to me, huh?" I tease.

I'm Annie Cresta, Finnick's best friend. I'm not colorful or loud but I'm home and Finnick loves me.

"Yeah. I promise not to avoid you anymore."

"Good," I reply, standing, "I'll see you after the tour, Finn."

I wait until he meets my eyes so he knows I'm holding him to it. Without the reassurance his nod gives me, I might think he'd go away and hide from me for another six months. I don't think he'll ever admit, but I think Finnick needs me. Now that he's back, I can't help but think that I might need him, too.


	3. Chapter 3

I spend the next couple of weeks at Clara and Drew's house since Mother is taking care of Elliot while Mrs. Odair is attending to sort of business in the Justice Building every day. At least, that's what my mother tells me.

I don't tell Clara about my conversation with Finnick but I'm pretty sure she's guessed. I'm in an exponentially better mood now that Finnick's come back from wherever his mind was for those past six months.

This time around I decide to watch the Victory Tour on television so I can get an idea of what Finnick is experiencing, but it's hard. In District Twelve the crowd is a tired-looking mass in the center of a concrete, monochromatic world. In Eleven the faces in the crowd have the same haggard look to them, most of the older bodies bent from age and labor. Everything is so brown—the same brown clothes, skin, dirt, even the sky. I can't help but feel thankful for District Four with its seashells and wind chimes. Here we at least have some room for beauty.

The entire time Finnick is on stage in most of the districts he speaks in a clinical, detached, carefully rehearsed way. I watch his face closely whenever I can, but he hides his emotions well. The only time I see any part of the boy I know is in District Eight. Finnick trapped and killed its male tribute, so I would have to imagine that some semblance of guilt might seep through his mask of indifference, but it doesn't. Not until the end of his speech, anyway.

It's only for a moment and I'm positive that I'm the only one in the world who could have noticed it. He's just finished the final sentence when he makes the mistake of glancing up at the families. A cross of sadness and guilt flashes across his face and leaves just as quickly, but his fists are clenched as he leaves the stage.

Suddenly I wish I were there with him, to tell him that no one blames him for what he did—that it was survival. Kill or be killed. But I know how his mind works and I know he's got to be killing himself over it.

The year before Finnick's games a single seal washed up on our beach with a bite wound, inches from death. I remember coming home from school and finding Finnick at my doorstep, almost in tears. He led me down to the beach and asked me if I knew how to heal the wound, but at first glance I already knew the animal was far past any help. Just to humor him, I used some of the Yucca plant from our neighbor's house to set the wound but somehow found the wherewithal to tell him the animal wasn't going to live. The next day Finnick took his father's old dinghy and dropped into deeper water, alone. The look on his face the day that seal died was the same look I recognized flash across his face today. Once again I feel a slow-burning hatred for the Capitol rise in my gut.

My Finnick has always taken the pain of others upon himself, but the Capitol Finnick is a star because he inflicted such pain. Now it's not enough that he kills other children for their entertainment, but that he has to face the families of those he hurt?

I bury my face in my hands and plug my ears. I don't know how he could possibly stay sane. I try to imagine myself in his position but to no avail. The thought simply revolts me; I find myself physically feeling ill at the thought of facing the world in such a way. I understand Finnick's hesitation towards me after his games now that I understand this—now that I understand what he has to do to appease the monster. He has to be one, too.

I don't notice that I'm shaking until I feel Clara's hand on my shoulder. She turns off the television before turning to me.

"You don't have to watch it if it upsets you." Her voice is soft, like the velvet dress our mother used to wear when we were young. It was our father's favorite.

"It's horrible," I whimper, "that's not him. That's not Finnick."

Her hands are pulling me up, sitting me down on a chair.

"But it is, Annie. That's Finnick. And he's going to need you when he gets back."

I nod. The thought of anyone needing me is foreign, strange. I need Clara, I need my mother, but no one has ever needed me. Of course Finnick has other friends—he was popular even before the games, just from being friendly to nearly everyone. But I've noticed lately that his friends from school haven't treated him the same since the games. I can add them to the list of things the Capitol has taken from Finnick.

But not me. I'll be here, just like always. I'm home.

* * *

When Finnick comes back, I take special care not to ask him about the tour. In fact, I don't really ask him anything at all. We don't really talk all that much. We sit on our beach, net, even swim sometimes. He seems to be in deep thought a lot of the time and it provokes my curiosity, but not enough to ask. Sometimes I try to imagine what could be going through his head, but it's hard because one moment he looks peaceful and almost happy in his thoughts and the next he's frozen with terror or swimming in sadness. Is he reliving the games? Thinking about the families of the tributes he killed? Or is he thinking about his grocery list?

I keep him company as much as I can, but still try to give him some sort of privacy when it's obvious he's thinking about something painful. I'll stand up and stretch my legs or get us some water while he works through it. Part of me wants to help him but the reality is that I just don't know how; I have an idea of what he went through but I don't think I could ever fully understand.

As time goes on, Finnick comes back into himself. It takes a couple months, but it happens sure enough. Soon he's leading me on expeditions into coves and suggesting day trips on his boat. The best part of it all is that he smiles again. Finnick's real smile is much different than his Capitol one—it radiates a certain warm quality and makes whoever it's directed at feel right. Luckily that person's been me lately. I didn't realize how much I'd missed his smile until it came back—until he came back. A lot of that has been happening recently.

My mother has been asked to help train workers up north to help rebuild the netting factory that burnt down a few months ago, so I've moved in with Drew and Clara semi-permanently.

Clara has constantly been giving me her "I Was Right" look ever since Finnick got back from the tour. I try to ignore her. I don't quite know myself why Finnick is spending all his spare time with me—I meant it when I said I though he had outgrown me all that time ago, but something in Clara's all-knowing looks tells me I was wrong. I'm glad I was because I don't really know what I'd be doing everyday without Finnick. Probably sitting in Clara's house netting until my hands bleed. I mean, I do that anyway, but only when necessary. I try to be out of the house when Drew gets home from the docks to give him and Clara some privacy, so I often go over to Finnick's for dinner.

At first when he'd insisted I come I'd refuse, not wanting to seem like I was some sort of charity (since Finnick's rich and all now) but after a week or so I cave, getting tired of the cheap bits of boiled grouper Leonora sells in the market. I'm still careful never to give myself anything but petite portions of whatever Mrs. Odair makes, claiming to have a small appetite.

It's during these dinners in the months leading up to the 66th games that I come to know Althea Odair and her husband, Finnick's father, Eric. Finnick and I never really talked about our fathers before his games. The grief and horror was still too immediate to bear discussing out loud. Whenever we were too sad to talk at all, we had a way of telling each other '_not today' _with just a look. But the way Mrs. Odair talks about her husband is refreshing; her stories are nostalgic and saddening at times, of course, but the overall sense is always peaceful, as though she's talking about an old friend who has moved away. Content, at peace.

I always watch Finnick watch me out of the corner of my eye as Mrs. Odair tells her stories is her funny, dreamy voice, but I can never tell what he thinks of it all. Whenever I get too curious to restrain myself from turning to look at him full on, he just smiles and looks down, continuing to pick at his food. One day when we're laying out on our beach on a rare sunny day, a few days before he has to leave to mentor for the next games, I finally ask him something I've been thinking a lot about.

"Do you think we'd still be friends if that ship hadn't gone down?" I ask, dragging my fingers through the sand.

"I think we'd still be friends if I lived in District 12." Finnick says matter-of-factly. I snort.

"I'm serious!" I say, propping myself up on my elbows.

"So am I!" Finnick has propped himself up too and is giving me his serious face. I shake my head, smiling, and lay back down. Finnick doesn't follow my lead this time and sits all the way up, crossing his long gangly teenager legs. I can't help thinking what the Capitol would think of Finnick like this. Would they be repulsed by the sand in his hair or the slight sunburn in his cheeks? Would his boyishness confuse them? I like to think so. This Finnick belongs to me.

"I think it just accelerated the process." Finnick finally says, giving me his real answer.

"Our fathers being killed in a wreck 'accelerated the process' of our friendship?" I'm giving him a hard time but I know what he means. Something else about my own question bothers me, but I can't quite place it.

"I don't want to say that I think that it happened for a reason. It didn't. But maybe someone up there knew we couldn't do it… alone, I guess." He glances up at the clouds and for once his allusion to some higher being doesn't have me rolling my eyes. I know now why my question from before felt wrong to me. The word "friendship" is too juvenile, too superficial to explain Finnick and I.

I just nod. It's the last day I see him before he leaves for the games.

* * *

This time around, the games are harder to watch but I watch them anyway. My mother is back home again, so I sit beside her on our beat-up little couch and let her stroke my hair every time I wince at something onscreen. It's hard not to see the images and imagine experiencing them myself now that the games have become so much more personal. I skip school twice in the first week of the games because I'm so shaken up from being so invested in them that I can't focus.

I'll being sitting in my desk, half-listening to the teacher when I find myself in a vivid daydream, except they're more like nightmares. I imagine I'm the girl tribute from 4 who was stabbed to death by a rabid-looking tribute with no weapon except for a two-inch long knife. I imagine I'm a gamemaker, pressing a big red button that opens up the pit of boiling water underneath the twelve-year-old boy from 6. I imagine I'm Finnick, sitting in a lavish room, watching the boy from 4 who made it to the final eight nearly starve to death with no funds left to send him any more food.

Sometimes when I 'wake' from these terrors, I'm crying. Sometimes I'm shaking. Sometimes people will notice and try to snap me out of it, sometimes people don't notice at all, and sometimes I come to by myself to see the faces of the other kids my age staring at me like I'm a freak. I almost convince myself that I don't mind it, but I do.

I want Finnick to come back. When the boy from our district is shot through the heart with an arrow, I have a sick fluttering of hope that Finnick will come back sooner because of it, but I know that's not the case. All the mentors, especially the Capitol's beloved Finnick Odair, will have to stay until the very end. Until the Capitol has their new a victor—their new victim.

After the games end, I still have nightmares, but now only when I'm actually asleep. My mother and Clara are glad to find I'm not having my strange lapses at school anymore. As usual, Clara knows what's really happening with me, and I'm glad to hear to hear since I haven't been so sure myself, lately.

"You've always had an active imagination, Annie, I just never thought it would be so strong that it'd literally consume you!" Clara teases, tossing me a strawberry. I almost drop it, scowling. Even when in season, they're expensive.

"Watch the berries, Clara," I grumble, then reluctantly bite into mine.

"Too busy watching you, sis," she winks, then adds, "when does Finnick get back?"

"Tonight, maybe tomorrow." I answer.

"Good. You're crankier when he's not around." It bugs me that she's so serious about it. I scowl, only supporting her previous comment, which makes her laugh. Somehow I find it in me to laugh, too.


	4. Chapter 4

I guess the Capitol just couldn't let go of Finnick because when he finally returns, two weeks have passed. When I ask him why he was there so long, he replies he was attending events of rich Capitol citizens whose names I don't even recognize from watching as much television as I have in the past few weeks. When we're in the market early in the morning one day and I suggest that our families and some of his old school friends get together for his sixteenth birthday the next weekend, he shakes his head.

"President Snow wants me in the Capitol."

This takes me by surprise. "…Snow?"

He nods, expression unreadable. "He's hosting the party."

I'm silent. Shocked. Then I smile. "Your mother's not going to be very happy about that."

The edge in his voice takes me aback. "She doesn't exactly have a choice."

I decode this as 'I don't exactly have a choice.' I don't stop trying, though, convinced to get him to crack. I have to see him smile—all I've seen of him on television these past few weeks are frowns and his funny little Capitol smirks.

"Well, I have to tell you, you're really missing out. Clara was gonna make her special tuna."

There. Finnick wrinkles his nose in feign disgust.

"Oh God, anything but the tuna!" He moans, wriggling away from me.

"Careful, Odair, or I'll tell her you asked for it anyway." I tease, closing the gap he's created.

"Have mercy!" His face cracks into a grin and it feels like a damn in my chest breaks and lets all the tension and anxiety I've been holding in be released. I can almost feel myself deflate.

"I wish I could bring you." He kicks the ground.

"Me too." I say. Not just to be in the Capitol, but to help Finn remember there is still a home for him. I think he gets lost when he's in the Capitol; I think he hates it, to be honest. It takes so long to get anything but anger out of him whenever he comes back. I think of all the strange, unfamiliar people there and how they treat him like they belong to them, to that culture. He is not theirs. I hope he knows that.

"I'll tell you all about it when I come back." He promises, finally picking his gaze up off the ground.

"You don't have to, Finn." I don't want to make him recount stories of a place he clearly would rather avoid just for my benefit. Besides, maybe I can keep this slice of home pure for him to always return to when he needs it. But he shakes his head.

"No," he gives me a small smile, "I think it'll help.'

"Okay, then." I agree, returning his smile. Something flickers around in my head. Should I tell Finn about my strange behavior at school? The nightmares? No. No, of course not. They're not that big of a deal. He has enough to worry about, anyways. I have Clara, and soon Finnick will be back for good for almost a whole year after this last Capitol trip. Then everything will be back to normal.

But that never did really work out in the past, did it?

* * *

I convince Clara to come with me to the pastry shop near the main street of town to wait for Finnick. We split a slice of our favorite sweet fluffy bead and dip it into a glaze made of diluted honey and cream. The shop sells the good kind with sugar from the Capitol but it's much too expensive. The finished result of our bread-dipping procedure looks pretty gross, but it tastes heavenly. We call it cloud bread.

From our seats by the window I can see the train station across the square. After a while of sitting here I feel comfortable enough to tell Clara about my worry of Finnick relapsing back into his strange stand-offish mood upon his return, but she assures me that he'll be nothing but happy to be home. Maybe it's the pastry or maybe it's the fact that Finnick's coming home but I'm in such a good mood that I let myself believe her.

A bunch of townspeople and even a few peacekeepers come and leave the shop with their goods before I notice the train finally coming in at its ever-dizzying speed.

I watch Finnick step out of the car and stay in my seat, planning to get up and join up with him as he passes the pastry shop, but a pair of peacekeepers stops him before he can close half the distance. I watch Clara's brow furrow in mirror of my own confusion, but she says nothing. Normally peacekeepers will leave the victors alone if they can help it. It's not until Finnick starts screaming that it registers that something is very, very wrong.

I'm out of the shop and crashing into Finnick before I realize that I've even left my chair. Finnick is yelling barely comprehensible profanities at the peacekeepers who look completely unphased and even strangely prepared for his verbal assault. I have relatively weak arms but I effectively shove Finnick away, anyway.

"What happened?" I ask, turning to the peacekeepers. They look at me wearily.

"Tell me!" I demand, adrenaline making my words loud and forceful.

"Althea Odair died last night of unknown causes. Because Mr. Odair is not of legal age, the younger son is being relocated to a community home in Sector 136A." The shorter of the two tells me, eyes reproachful.

Mrs. Odair is dead. Elliot is being taken away to the opposite side of the district. It feels like someone has punched me in the gut. Luckily Clara has materialized by my side and is talking to Finnick in a hushed tone, leading him away from the square and the crowd that's forming, because it feels like I've lost the ability to form words.

One glance at the look on Finnick's face and I snap out of it. I take his other arm. He's not yelling anymore, but he looks downright sick. His eyes dart around wildly as if trying to make sense of what has just happened, his jaw hanging slack. Suddenly, unannounced, he keels over and vomits onto the dirt path. Clara and I's eyes meet.

"You take him home. I'll go see what I can do about Elliot." Her voice is steady and I latch on to her words, trying to absorb her strength. I watch her back as she jogs back into the square.

When it seems like Finnick has gotten all the sick out of his system, I force him back upright and keep pulling him forward. Multiple times he stops and dry heaves, but I make him press on. _Get him to the house, Annie, _I repeat in my head, _just get him to the goddamn house. _

Finnick has started to cry by the time we get to the Victor's Circle. I approach the door of his family's house, ready to drag him inside and onto the couch when I realize what a horrible idea it is. The house is full traces of his mother and his brother, both good as dead now. I glance around desperately.

"In here, girl." The voice comes directly from my right, where a sweet-looking elderly woman stands in the doorway of her own house, beckoning us. I immediately recognize her as Mags Cohen, another one of our district's victors. I'm pretty sure she won her games before my parents were born.

I turn to find that Finnick is now crouched on his knees in front of his house, looking tortured and lost. I try to pull him up, but I'm nowhere near strong enough. I crouch down to his level.

"Finnick? Finnick, listen to me. I want to help you, but you have to stand up. Do you think you can do that?" I use my softest voice, lifting his chin so his eyes meet mine. He nods weakly and I lead him into Mags's house.

She gestures to the couch just inside the threshold, where I gladly deposit the trembling Finnick, then quickly disappears into some other part of the house.

Suddenly I'm alone with Finnick. I'm alone with the gentlest soul in the universe who has just had everything he ever loved taken away from him, so I do the only thing I can think of.

Every song, melody and lullaby that I know from hearing them so much as a child when Clara would sing them to me whenever I was scared or couldn't fall sleep. It's her steadfastness that I channel when I shakily begin the first line:

_Deep in the ocean, the ocean so wide_

_ Pray to the Sea God, there's no need to cry_

Finnick stares at me with his big, watery green eyes. I push the hair back from his face and let him lay down, pulling his head into my lap.

_ Lift up your chin and taste the salty spray_

_ Drowning in your love is surely the best way._

The tears flow freely now, down his cheeks and into my skirt as well as down my face and into his hair. I don't care that my voice is cracking—I go straight into the next lullaby I know. And then the next, and the next, and the next.

When I run out of songs I sing the first one again and repeat the process. Listening to the words and eventually mouthing along to some gives him something to cling on to, I think. We do this for hours; I sing, he mouths along. We both cry. Him for his family, and me for him.

It's dark when Mags comes back in, and by this time my singing has been reduced to a hoarse whisper. She holds a mug of a steaming liquid out for me to take, and I do. I take a hesitant sip. Tea.

"Thank you," I whisper. Her eyes flicker between me and Finnick, who sleeps, and in response, presses a firm kiss to the crown of my head and walks away.

I look down at Finn. His eyes are puffy and it looks like he must have scratched himself pretty bad somewhere along the way here, but overall, he looks peaceful in his sleep. Like a boy. Not the boy he was when I first knew him, but a boy nonetheless. I wish he could take this sense of peace with him into consciousness, but I know he won't. There's no way he could. All I know is that I will be here when he wakes.


	5. Chapter 5

It hurts my heart to watch Finn finally wake up; his eyes open groggily, a content expression playing on his face until he realizes where he is and what has happened. I watch it hit him, and it's like I'm hit with the wall of grief, too. Finnick notices me watching him and sits up.

"Annie." his voice cracks at my name. I watch as he glances around the room, then, as if unsure, stands slowly. "The beach."

I let him pull me by the elbow out into the circle, down a series of narrow alleys, and somehow back to our old sector, past my house, and down the steep path to our beach. Finnick wades into the water until it reaches his knees. I give him a moment alone to gather his thoughts, and then he turns to me.

"It was Snow." His words are unmistakably deliberate. Mine seem to get stuck in my throat.

"What do you mean?" I walk into the water, too, not minding that the edges of my knee-length cotton dress are getting wet.

Finnick runs a hand through his hair. "He killed my mother."

The words don't make sense to me. I shake my head in confusion. Last night's grief has been replaced with frustrated anger, it seems.

"Finnick, I know this is a lot to take in. What happened to your mother was horrible and I wish with my entire heart that we could reverse it somehow, but Clara is trying to get Elliot—"

"It won't happen. Snow will see to that. Neither of us will ever see him again." His words are level and controlled but a fire burns behind them. I feel like I'm going to explode.

"What are you talking about? People die all the time, Finnick, that's just how it is here! This isn't the Capitol! I don't know why you think there's some grand scheme behind this all, but there's not!" I won't let Finnick delude himself.

I can feel my expression soften immediately once he meets my eyes. The look on his face tells me there is something more he hasn't told me.

"What is it, Finn?" Each word is careful, soft, now.

He doesn't respond right away. He stares at his feet for a while, picks up a perfect white shell and examines it in his hand. Then he hurls it away as hard as he can. He closes his eyes.

"It was after the big party. Snow had me introduced to five, maybe six of some of the wealthiest women in the Capitol. I'm always meeting people, but this was different. Predatory. I knew something was wrong." He opens his eyes and looks at me, but I'm frozen. Numb.

"I guess I was too dumb or innocent to understand, so he had to explain it to me word for word." Finnick's voice has dropped to whisper. Explain what? What could have happened?

"When I was told to leave with one of the women, I flat out refused. Snow pulled me aside and told me there'd be consequences. I just… I just never would have imagined this."

No. No. No. My mind is reeling. The world is spinning. I grab Finn's arm to keep from falling over. He must walk me back to the sand, because the next thing I know, I'm sitting in it.

"Oh my God." The words slip out without my permission. He hangs his head.

"Finn. Finnick. I'm so sorry." I'm crying now but I don't care. "I'm so sorry."

I look up at him, at the image of my best friend blurred by my own tears. I scoot closer to him and grab his wrist, looking him hard in the eye with sudden resolve.

"It's not your fault, Finn." My words are choked but I force them out anyway. He must know this. He can't carry this weight—it will crush him. It will kill him.

"How can you say that?" He tears his arm away from me.

"Because it's true. How could you have known this would happen? You did what anyone would have. How could you have known?" I see it in his eyes that he wants to believe me.

"I didn't. But she's dead. And Elliot's gone."

"Yes." I say forcefully. "Because Snow killed her. Not you. Snow."

"Because of me." He looks away. I pull him back.

"No. Because he tried to force you to do something no one should have to be forced to do. That is not your fault."

My words are almost pleading. I say it again. "This is _not _your fault."

_You've already been put through too many situations no human being should ever have to, _I think, _the Capitol has already taken so much from you—don't let them take this._

Finnick finally nods and that's when I really begin to cry. I think he is crying, too. I grab his hand and hold it in both of my own, pressing my salty cheek to the web of blue veins on the back of his hand. I can't feel his heartbeat like this but I can imagine it. I imagine it rhythmic and steady, like the waves that kiss the shore.

* * *

The funeral is the next Thursday. Finnick has to go back to the Capitol the following Wednesday. The thought of it makes me sick.

The service is fairly small. My family, Mags, a few townspeople, and a handful of Finnick's old friends from school are the only ones to show up besides me and Finnick. His old friends make an attempt at comforting him after the service, but it is clear they don't know what to do or say around him anymore.

Finnick is somehow more together than anyone else seems to be. Although somber, he finds it in him to smile at the guests, thank them for coming, and asks them to send his regards to their families, as well. This careful, collected person reminds me too much of the person I see on the television; I don't like it but I still stay by his side the entire time.

Soon everyone has left except for Mags, Finnick, and I. We sit together and wait for the ceremonial boat to approach the dock, silent. Mags holds the ornate porcelain pot containing Mrs. Odair's ashes in her lap. I've decided officially as of late that I like Mags—she's nice to me and seems to care very much for Finnick, so that's enough for me. Finnick's clenches his hand together with a blank expression, making his fists frighteningly white.

"Hey," I say, nudging him. "You okay?"

I know he's not okay. His mother is dead, his brother has been taken away, and now he has to scatter the ashes of the only parent he had left. What I'm asking is if he is okay enough to go through with the rest of the ceremony. I've already told him that if he were not able, I would sing the song and scatter the ashes by myself, not knowing at the time Mags would come along. He refused then, and he refuses now,

"No. I'm fine." He seems to relax a little after meeting my eyes. But if I've learned anything from the past year, it is that Finnick often lies for the sake of others.

"Mags and I can— "

"No, Annie. I have to do this."

I nod. I can understand this.

When the boat arrives, Mags pays the man to take us south to the waters bordering the sector where Finnick's mother grew up. Here we must take extra care in navigation since lobster is the main focus of this sector's labor, and lobster traps are scattered in seemingly random correlations along the coast.

Something heavier and denser than sorrow hangs over us as we sing our district's ballad of farewell.

_May the water always be calm in the path that you find,_

_ May the storms of life's troubles be always left behind,_

_ When the daylight filters in from the surface above,_

_ It's a sign from the heavens that you'll always be loved._

For the first time since our childhood, Finnick grabs my hand.

_Every wave has its peak, every story its end,_

_ That doesn't stop the waves from kissing the shore again and again, _

_ The pulse of the sea will match the pulse of my heart,_

_ Knowing that you are there, we'll never truly be apart._

It's Mags who finishes the job—Finnick is crying and I can't help but be paralyzed by his pain. I reach up with my free hand and wipe the tears from his cheeks with my thumb. He looks at me, a strange mix of sadness, gratitude, and dejectedness in his eyes. I want to tell him that it's going to be okay. I don't want to lie. I'm not sure of anything.

Thank God for Mags, who takes care of everything else once we're back in our sector. Finn and I are too far away together to stay grounded in what is actually happening. Once we're back in the village, Mags directs us to Finnick's house instead of her own.

"I had it cleaned out," she explains. Finnick looks at her gratefully.

"Thank you." His voice cracks. Mags says nothing in return but instead gives us a fond, sad smile and walks up to her own door.

Mags wasn't kidding. The house looks bereft on any personal touches—photos, rugs, curtains. It's eerily sterile, but I suppose it's best for the situation.

I lead Finnick to the couch, make sure he sits down, and tell him to stay. I go upstairs to the upper bedrooms and check to see what is still there and what is not. Elliot's room is blank, as well as his mother's. Finnick's room has been left alone. I go to one of his drawers and pull out the most comfortable-looking cotton shirt and pants I can find and leave, closing the door tightly behind me. I deliver the clothes to Finnick and tell him I will be back soon and instruct him to go to Mags's house if he needs anything.

I'm just leaving the Victor's Circle when I run in to Clara, who has been looking for me just as I went out to look for her.

"I don't know what to do," I tell her as we walk to the market. "He has no one left."

"He has you, Annie," Clara chimes, stopping at one of the first stands to examine some cod.

"I meant other than me," I sigh.

"Well don't say it as if you don't count!"

I ponder this. She's right, I guess. I don't say so but instead pay a bald man with a missing ear for two of his chicken's eggs.

"Are you going to stay with him?" Clara asks.

"If he needs me to," I reply simply. I wouldn't give it a second thought if it would help Finnick. I furrow my brow. "His house has been cleaned out. It's like his mother and Elliot never existed."

Clara turns to me, nose wrinkled. "Do you thinks that's any better?"

I know what she means. Is being forced to remember really any better than being forced to forget? If I were him… I don't know. I guess I'd want to avoid the place altogether.

It's this I think of when I return to the house with my groceries. I fry the eggs and grill the cod and put the plate in front Finnick until he eats all of it. He keeps staring at the fork like it's some strange object from another planet. He swallows like it's painful. The whole ordeal is painful to watch.

"Tell you what," I finally say to Finnick, words careful, like speaking to a child. "I know this place is hell, but you have to stay here. You're a victor."

Finnick is blank.

"But during the day we can do other things, go other places. You won't have to come back here until you're too tired to think and just fall asleep, okay?"

"Alright." The word is scratchy and delayed, but it's enough for me.


	6. Chapter 6

The next week Finnick and I spend walking around some of the poorer sectors, talking to school acquaintances and buying from shopkeepers. We buy trinkets and strange little things we don't really need just to spread out some of his ridiculous wealth. Finnick finds bracelets and pins for me and I gladly wear them. I'm in charge of the food and clothes, which we buy plenty of, and he just keeps an eye out for anything shiny or otherwise eye-catching. In the four days we spend in the sectors, we gather a bag of beads, eight pins, three bracelets, multiple pearls, a couple of knives, and a spool of multi-colored thread. It's nice to see him focused on something other than his own misery for a change.

The Friday before Finnick has to leave for the Capitol, he insists that we go down to our old beach with our newfound supplies. He seems blissfully distracted as he strings together anklets and long necklaces in the sand—I'm the one worrying. Not worried. Mad. Well, not mad, heart-broken. Nothing really seems to be able to describe it; part of my chest is sodden with fear and hatred on behalf on Finnick's forced labor in the Capitol. It makes me sick. Looking at him now with his piercing green eyes focused on his work, his shaggy hair too long, his lightly freckled forehead wrinkled in concentration—it only makes me sadder. I hate myself for it, but I start to cry.

Finnick looks up, alarmed. "Annie?"

"I'm sorry," I shake my head and try to get my fingers to continue their work on the small beginnings of a net in my lap.

"Hey," he scoots closer. "It's okay, I promise."

This only makes me feel worse. He already has to deal with so much and now he has to comfort me over something that _he_ is being forced to do. I start crying harder.

"It's like you said. It's not me, it's Snow."

I'm confused. Finnick gives me a little smile and reaches for the lock of hair hanging in my face. He examines the ends for a moment before explaining.

"Snow is the whore. He can make me go and do whatever he wants, but it's okay." He tucks the hair behind my ear. "He's the one doing it, you know?"

I understand the logic but that still doesn't change what Finnick will have to do. I look up at him, and I know he knows what I'm thinking. His face falls.

"You're right," I say.

"_You're _right," he smiles again, but more reserved, "you're the one who gave me the idea."

I think back to the day after his mother's death. Everything hurts too much to bear. I hold my head in my hands and try to be still. I feel the pressure of Finnick's body beside me, warm and comforting. It strikes me that I simply don't want to give him to them. He belongs here, not to the clawed hands of rich Capitol citizens who know nothing but his face and his name. It's not fair, it's not fair, it's not fair. It sounds childish even in my head but I don't care because it's true. It's not fair.

Finnick's voice is soft when he finally speaks up. "Do you want to go home?"

I shake my head but keep my eyes closed. "Can I come with you?"

In response, he takes my hands and helps me to stand, taking our supplies under one arm and my hand in the other. We're back at the Victor's Village before the sun goes down, but barely. Finnick stops short. I look up. We're at Mags's house.

"I've been staying here," Finnick admits. I nod. I probably would, too.

He leads me inside where Mags is sitting in a small chair by a lit fire. The sight of her, so weathered and at the same time so lovely in front of the hearth gets a smile out of me. She raises her hand in greeting but says nothing, understanding the probably empty look in our eyes. Finnick and I end up in the guest room—bare except for a bag of Finnick's things and a small picture of his family on the bedside table.

The sight of this is what breaks me enough to the point where I collapse of the bed, trying desperately to shut out all the ugliness and suffering swimming around me. I feel the bed move with Finnick's weight, and soon we're under the covers like when we were kids, protecting each other silently with nothing but the sheets and the others' company. I'm scared and I know he is terrified, but we are silent. We both know and nothing needs to be said.

Between the steady rhythm of Finnick's breathing and the warmth of the house, I'm soon asleep in a place where the ugliness can't reach me.

* * *

When I wake, Finnick is gone. In his place lays one of his handmade anklets that I easily slip around my wrist. I don't leave the bed for another hour, trying to soak in the strange moments of peace I felt last night, but I feel nothing. Still, without Finnick, it is difficult to think of a reason to get up in the first place. Maybe I could just stay here until he gets back? The idea is ridiculous and I know it, but I entertain the thought anyways.

I lay on my back for what seems like forever. I must drift back to sleep because the next thing I know, I'm waking up to the worried face of Mags looming over me. Her eyebrows are pushed together as she smoothes my hair back and gives an almost imperceptible shake of the head. I sit up.

"I'm sorry," my voice croaks. "I'll leave."

Mags just shakes her head and hands me a cup of tea, lukewarm. She must have been here a while, not wanting to wake me. I feel a sudden rush of gratitude for this woman, a victor of all people, who is being so kind and loving to the friend of a friend.

"Thank you," I say after taking a sip. I don't know what else to tell her. She just gives me a small smile and turns to leave the room. I follow.

A glance out the kitchen window tells me it's storming—hard. The guest room is pretty much in the center of the house so I hadn't heard it before, but the wind is frighteningly loud the rain is so thick you can't see ten yards out the window. Days like these Finnick and I's families used to be evacuated to the school since our homes are so close to the ocean. I think of Clara, living with Drew, and my mother, who works inland and breathe again once I work out that they're all right. I know I'll be here a while.

I make myself sit across from the fire on the small gray couch and watch the flames until I get a headache. Mags returns from some other part of the house with an armful of blankets up to her shoulders. I suppress a smile. After handing two to me, she makes her way to her favorite chair by the hearth. We are both silent for a while, listening to the rain and wind and the occasion pop from the pine burning on the fire.

If I could just look past the disgusting fear stirring in the pit of my stomach, this would be the most peaceful I've felt in months. The silence between Mags and I is comforting and warm, kind of like the way Clara or Finnick and I can not say anything and just be. It's nice. I don't exactly feel like talking, anyways.

I examine the soft blue blanket strewn across my lap, rubbing the thick fabric between my fingers. The dark hue reminds me of my father's favorite jacket that I still keep in my closet back home. I feel a twinge at the memory of him in that jacket and the way he wore it constantly during the cold months. Behind my eyelids I see him braiding Clara's hair, showing me how to net, wrapping his strong arms around my mother's waist. I miss those arms and capable fingers.

I don't want to open my eyes. It's much nicer in here where I can remember the good things, no matter how sad they make me. It's nicer in my head where things like shipwrecks don't happen and people like President Snow don't abuse people like Finnick. I'd rather feel my own pain than know I can't help in lessening the pain of others.

"Oh, dear," Mags says after a particularly loud clap of thunder. "The ships won't be out for a while."

She's right. This storm in particular was unexpected, came seemingly out of nowhere. It started out mild enough but by this time irreparable damage will have been done to the fishing boats and an additional work force will spend at least a week rebuilding after it calms down. This means another work draft.

With production completely stopped for over a week, boys as young as thirteen or fourteen, depending on the need, will be shipped out with the rest of the fishermen for as long as a month to compensate for the seafood shortage caused by the storm. It's only happened three times in my lifetime, the first I barely remember. The last draft was almost three years ago, the year Finnick was reaped. He was drafted as well as most of the boys in his grade. The thing I remember best from that time was how bored I was without him and how annoyed I was when he finally came back and wouldn't shut up about getting to work with the big kids.

I think of him now, having gone through the games, the murder of his mother, his forced prostitution. My stomach churns. I curl tighter into the blankets and wind my hands up to my ears to cover them. I hate it. I want him to come home, back to the place where Snow can't hurt him.

No, that's not right. Snow can and did hurt him here. The thought makes me curl in tighter, press down on my ears harder. I jump when I feel her hand touch me.

"You all right, girl?" Mags's voice is full of genuine concern. I feel guilty.

"Yes," I nod, sitting up, letting my hands fall, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." She sits down beside me. "There are others, you know."

I turn my head to look quizzically at her.

"Snow does this to others," she explains, "most victors are part of it in one way or another, actually."

"Were you?" I ask. It doesn't cross my mind that this may be too personal of a question until after I ask it.

She shakes her head, but does not elaborate. "Many of my friends, yes. Most of them are gone now."

She says this last part softly, her eyes glazing over in remembering things I can't see. A clap of thunder brings her back. I start to shake, but not because I'm cold.

"You've a family, yes?" Mags asks as she drapes another blanket over me.

"Yes."

"Tell me about them." She pushes my hair behind my face in a very motherly way, and I smile.

I'm quiet in thought for a moment. "I have a sister. Her name is Clara."

Mags nods. "Very pretty name. What is she like?"

"Beautiful," I tell her, imagining Clara's smile wrinkling her blue eyes. I think of her freckles, lighter than mine, sprinkling her cheeks, and her thick hair falling in warm brown sheets around her face. "She's married. To a fisherman. His name is Drew. He loves her very much. He makes her jewelry."

I instinctively touch Finnick's bracelet on my wrist and feel my attention dissolving.

"What about your parents?" Mags asks.

"My mother is very… purposeful. Loving." I smile. "A great cook."

"Does she cook for you a lot?"

I nod, thinking of her chowder and sweet salmon glazes. A real laugh escapes me. "She can make a meal out of a sardine."

Mags keeps asking me questions and I keep answering them. Part of me knows she's purposefully trying to keep my mind off of Finnick, but I am nothing but thankful for it. It's nice to talk to someone about normal things. Soon I learn about her, as well, and come to know Mags—a victor, a survivor, but mostly a gentle, even if a little sad, soul. She seems to be more comfortable in her place in life than any of us- having lived the lonely life of a victor for so long, I think she's made peace with it. Despite everything that is happening around her, it seems that she is able to find little bits of happiness in things. I admire that.

I admire her, and I know Finnick does too. I just want him to come home.


End file.
